The other two men carried the trunk, its contents rattling, but the third gazed around, in awe, at the maze of corridors and rooms, stairs and tents, that rose like a miniature city around the deck. He drifted to an alcove, where a cane lay within a glass case, its polished bronze head in the shape of a crow. There was no spellwork written on its surface, but its beauty was hypnotic.
“What does it do?”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud, not until the faces turned.
“If you don’t know,” said Valick, “then it isn’t meant for you.” He turned back to the other two men. “Have you come to trade, or sell?”
“That depends,” said the first man, “whether you have what we’re looking for.”
“And what would that be?” asked Katros, stepping forward.
The second man produced a folded slip of paper, on which the object was drawn. It was roughly the size of a child’s element set, and did not look like much, but then, neither did a fruit knife, and it could still cut deep enough to kill.
Katros studied the drawing a moment, then shook his head. “We do not have this here.”
He was lying.
The young man who had been the merchant’s son cracked his knuckles, the agreed-upon signal, and the other two heard.
“Then I suppose,” said the first, who had styled himself the leader, “we’re only here to sell.”
“That assumes we want to buy,” said Katros, nodding at the trunk. “Show us what you have.”
“Of course.” He knelt before the trunk and freed the lock.
The second man slid aside the clasps, and lifted the lid.
The third watched as the trunk fell open to reveal a pile of fabric. Not silk or velvet but heavy cloth, the color of a forest canopy at dusk. A cloak. It did not look like much, but then, of course, all stories were full of powerful artifacts and objects that had been disguised as common fare.
“It’s designed to shield the wearer against magic,” said the first, drawing the cloth from the trunk, and settling it around his own shoulders. “Let me show you how it works.”
Valick frowned. “The ship is spelled.”
“Ah,” countered the man, “but there’s one kind of spell that still works, even here.” A cool smile. “The wards.”
The words landed like a fuse. It burned across Valick’s face, lit in Katros’s still-drugged eyes as the two stewards of the Ferase Stras realized what they meant to do next.
The second man had already reached down into the trunk, fingers curling around the blade he’d hidden beneath the cloak. He sent the weapon flying. It sliced through the air, burying itself in Valick Patrol’s chest. Katros roared and flung himself at the attacker, and the two went down on the deck, while the first of the thieves took off, vanishing into the maze of rooms.
The third one scrambled over to the open trunk, but a hand caught his foot and he fell to the deck.
Valick lay gasping, blood spilling between his fingers and his teeth, the white of his tunic stained red around the blade buried in his ribs, but his free hand was a vise around the young man’s ankle.
“You will die,” snarled the steward.
“Not today,” he said, channeling the voice of a pirate, and kicking free. But Katros had gained the upper hand in his own fight, and slammed the second thief back into the mast. The whole ship shook with the force of it, and as his attacker slumped to the deck, Katros turned on him.
The third man threw out his hand, intending to call a gust of wind—forgetting the ship would not allow it. No wall of air rose up to stop the advancing storm of Katros Patrol. If the steward had been well, if there had been no gash to his temple, no savarin coursing through his veins, the glass disk would surely have turned black when he had asked if he would die that day. But Katros was unsteady on his feet, and he was sober and quick, and desperate to be a hero.
He danced backward, drawing a sword from the trunk’s depths and slashing out, too wide. He swung again, and this time Katros’s arm came up to block the blow. The blade slashed down, and he expected to feel the meaty give of flesh, but steel rang against steel as the white linen parted to reveal a metal bracer.
The third man turned the blade and slashed again, up toward Katros’s face, and to his horror, the steward of the Ferase Stras caught the sword. A thick palm clapped against the flat side of the blade, and a second later it was torn from the third man’s grip, and turned against him.
He twisted out of its path, or tried, but he felt the edge bite through his shirt, carving a shallow line across his ribs, and he had just enough time to register the searing heat, the fact Olik never seemed to feel pain in the throes of battle—